by Ken Fry
Miriam, he knew, was blessed. She had had a vision of the White Lady. Some would say she was possibly Guinevere, or the Blessed Virgin Mary. Miriam had said she had never ever heard of the White Lady before, never having encountered it in her work. There were Arthurian stories that suggest that the White Lady could only be Guinevere, King Arthur’s wife and lover of his first knight, Sir Lancelot. Miriam had assumed, from what was spoken to her, that the vision was the Mother Mary. Kelvin liked to think that she was correct. It fitted in well with what the SOTA enterprise was about.
He had a small shift in his view of the Catholic Church. Because of what Fergal had said about Pope Adrian, he found himself thinking that there could be some hope for mankind if the great man was allowed to implement changes to various dogma, entrenched views, and agendas. He also knew that would be a dangerous task for the pope.
He stared long and hard into the dark waters and found himself drifting into some other realm of being. In front of his mind appeared a simple wooden or metal goblet, nothing special, but old… well used… inviting and comforting. It belonged to nobody but was owned by everybody.
In one swift stroke of time, for Iseldir… there was nothing and there was everything. He saw, he knew, the ancients had not been wrong. He was not a part of the universe… he was the universe. Organised religions or belief structures were not needed. Creation was wrapped in compassion and loving-kindness. What he had suspected since he had met Miriam and the professor flooded through him. He was connected to her. In what way, he could not say nor understand. He felt it strongly and she had hinted at it. They had admitted that they felt a connection with each other, but the origins of that insight they had been unable to elucidate. That wasn’t that important, although he understood that something would eventually transpire. He resolved there and then to remain quiet about it until she raised the possibility.
He opened his eyes, and all was as it had been when they had first arrived. Thoughts and temperaments were normal. He stood silent, deep in thought. He was used to this and he felt no fear or confusion. In his sacred grove, he had experienced the same many times. They emanated from the one original source that was nameless – and he refused to attempt a name. It did not need a label of any sort. It was, is, always had been and always will be. He would talk to Miriam and even Fergy if he cared to listen.
* * *
LIDAR had revealed what looked like rectangular formations about five feet or so beneath the surface. Fergal began agreeing with Miriam – they looked like some sort of burial place. They decided to open up the first one and see.
With care, they gently uncovered the earth and soil, which was rich and fertile. The soil was sifted through, but nothing was found. Eventually, they came to where LIDAR had pinpointed the shape. It quickly opened up. A rich, unpleasant, and musty smell locked in over centuries, greeted the diggers who backed off quickly. What was revealed was a skeleton laid flat out, surrounded by various artefacts – some resembling weapons and body decorations, others were pots and domestic items.
“I knew I was right,” Miriam exclaimed. “This find is precious! I wonder why previous digs had not unearthed this before. Just look at that…”
Using soft brushed, the team began busily removing centuries of dirt and damp. The finds were in remarkable condition.
The professor knelt down at the exposed remains. He became quiet and Miriam could see what he was looking at. It was a dirty but small metal slab, which was resting on the skeleton’s rib cage. He brushed at it very gently.
“I think it’s gold. Whoever this was, he or she must have been somebody of rank. They wouldn’t be buried with what I’m certain is a gold piece and all these other items otherwise. Can you hand me the bucket, please?”
She passed it over full of lukewarm soapy water. With careful strokes, he began brushing away the grime and dirt. He peered at it intently “No doubt about it. It’s gold all right, and there appears to be an inscription on it. Here, have a look.”
She took it from him, got out her eyeglass and examined what was written. In spite of its age, it had not suffered across the centuries and remained legible.
“Amazing,” she said at first. “It’s written in italic Latin. Someone must have done this for him or her unless this person was literate. Normally, only the Druids had that skill at the time. Perhaps, he was a Druid?” She explained further. “Although the Celts didn’t have their own writing system, Celtic-language inscriptions in Latin or Greek alphabets have been found on Celtic sites all around Europe. Contrarily to popular beliefs, Celtic languages were still spoken after the Roman conquest. It’s interesting that italic inscriptions can be traced back to the first century and BC periods, known as Paleohispanic. This in Latin and is simple to read. It says, “Non diu vixit. Ei calicem me servavit.”
She looked at Fergal. “You haven’t a clue, have you?”
He shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“Brace yourself, Fergy.” She translated loud and clear. “I lived long. Her cup saved me.”
There was a lengthy pause.
“Bloody hell!” was all he could say. The implications couldn’t be clearer.
Be still, listen and you will see. You will know, and you draw close.
The words resounded yet again in her head. Once more, she covered her ears.
“You ok, Miriam? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Both seen and heard. She is speaking to me. We are close.”
“Well, she hasn’t been speaking to me. What did your good fairy have to say this time?”
“No, she wouldn’t, but I understand what’s been happening around Miriam.” Kelvin’s voice cut across them both.
They had not seen or heard him arrive. They had no time to show him their find. It was as if he couldn’t see it or couldn’t care less.
“I’ve been to the Camelot Moat. I’ve seen it in a different way. Fergy, you may have trouble believing this, but I know Miriam won’t find it so difficult after everything that’s happened. Back at the moat, I had the strangest experience. Whatever you think, it was my experience and nobody else’s. So, believe what you may. I was standing, staring into the waters and somehow, I got transfixed. Amazingly, in my mind, the entire universe seemed to open up to me. It all had to with what we are doing here. The Lady in White could be one or one of two or even three women. Of that, I am convinced. I’d like to talk about it all at dinner tonight.”
“Fine by me,” Fergal agreed, but couldn’t prevent himself from rolling his eyes. Did they have to be so dramatic about it? “Look at what we found.” He handed over the gold slab. “Yes, it’s gold. Miriam will tell you what the inscription says.”
She read it out to him, and his reaction was as theirs. Astonishment.
“What the hell is happening around here? How many more weird things and occurrences are going to appear?”
The professor stared at them both. “It gets stranger. I thought I’d save the next discovery for last, while you’re both here.”
Miriam and Kelvin looked at each other. Miriam exclaimed, “What, there’s more?”
“This.” Fergy held out a tattered but reasonably preserved leather pouch. It bore the stain of years, and soil and dirt, which he had carefully brushed off. “It was under the skull and protected somehow. Open it and look.” He handed it to them. “Handle it gently.”
Miriam reached out, her hands shaking a little. She handled it with professional care and gently eased it open. The contents spilled into her palm. Her jaw dropped and she felt a rush all over her being.
In her hand were three long, rusted, and venomous looking nails. The heads of which were bent and misshapen.
“No! My god… it couldn’t be,” was all she could say.
47
The cardinal gave instructions to both Vincenzo and Cracker. They were to meet away from their hotel. He needed the meeting before getting back to Florence for his rally. He had made bookings for an evening meal at the Cross
ways Hotel and Inn, in the ancient nearby town of Shepton Mallet. He chose it with a certain sense of irony. The town once had a prison which was believed to be haunted. The prison closed a few years back. The hotel was far away enough to be out of Inspector Rizzo’s sights.
Vincenzo had with him a printout of the professor’s previous discoveries, but it all seemed like torta nei cielo – or to use the English expression, ‘pie in the sky.’ When he left his hotel, he had not been inclined to inform Rizzo of his evening plans as he had been instructed to.
Emerging stealthily from his hotel, and dressed in secular attire, he stepped out, stealing glances in every direction. There was no sign of the inspector. Cautiously, he made his way to his pickup truck. Satisfied there was nobody about, he fired up and began the four miles plus journey to the Crossways Hotel.
It should be an interesting evening. At last, some action appears to be on the way.
* * *
Unseen, and standing from his hotel window, one hundred yards from Vincenzo’s, there was a smile on the face of Inspector Rizzo. He stared through his high-powered binoculars at the departing truck. There was no rush. He had guessed that Vincenzo would not be telling him of his movements. The magnetic, car-tracking device he had lodged under the rear wheel arch of the truck took good care of that situation. He could locate him when he wanted, anywhere he went. The device automatically started reporting its location and Vincenzo’s speed. GPS live software transmitted all he needed to know, direct to his smartphone. It didn’t take long, and his phone showed him that the priest’s vehicle had stopped. He checked the coordinates and decided to drive across to the town of Shepton Mallet.
I don’t have to be a mind reader to know whom he might be meeting.
Ten minutes later, complete with his cell phone and loaded Beretta, he set off to the town. He had one major observation. He would be unable to arrest Cracker unless he had UK police assistance and written authority. In the sequence of events, this was one point he had overlooked. He would have to explain it to the UK police very quickly or nothing would be achieved. Red tape was the same the world over. He would need their assistance. He arrived in Shepton Mallet without a fuss, and the GPS was registering the exact location of the meeting – The Crossways Inn and Hotel. The red pickup truck was clearly visible in the car park. Rizzo had nothing else to go on. He was alone, with no backup, and the worst thing that could happen is that he would be seen. That would blow the entire operation. He moved slowly to the bar entrance, opened the door and peered in. They were not in the bar. It was a good guess they had moved to the dining area. A quick glance confirmed his guess was correct. Sitting in the far corner, he recognised all three engaged in earnest conversation. Ah! Vorrei poter essere una mosca sul muro. At times like this, he wished he could be a fly on the wall. It was not to be. This had to be approached in stages.
He ordered a beer and out of sight, he slid into a corner seat. It could be a long wait. He wanted to discover where Cracker was staying. From there, he could coordinate his arrest warrant with legal and physical back up from the UK judiciary. Cracker could be detained in a UK jail until the paperwork came through. He could then be extradited legally.
* * *
The cardinal was in an explosive mood. He reasoned that timing was of the utmost importance.
“You two, I have to be back in Italy in a few days’ time, so our timing has to be coordinated in every respect. I am not to be seen with you. I will leave here without you. Cracker, keep close to Father Vincenzo, but not at your hotels. Rizzo is somewhere around here, and this is your big chance to complete your job. I want it done quickly. I’m certain he suspects me of being connected with Bishop Fisher’s death. That won’t do. God has plans for me and this is His work I am entrusting to you.” He glared intently at the two men.
Cracker looked faintly embarrassed. Doing God’s work was not how he saw it. He looked across at Vincenzo. “We need to lure him somehow, but not at the hotel. Father, you must set the trap. Alert me and I will do what is required. What about that place, the glade where those archaeologists were last? Get him there with some story and I’ll be waiting for him.”
“Leave it to me,” Vincenzo said, “and I’ll do what is necessary. Ok?”
“Fine, Father, but don’t take too long. I’d like it done some time in the next seven days.
Vincenzo shrugged. “He’s watching me closely. I think I know how to do this. We both have guns, and this should not be too difficult, yes? This is what we will do…”
They bent close together as he outlined his plan.
* * *
Forty-three minutes later, Inspector Rizzo ducked his head low behind a menu folder as he watched all three get up and leave. Vincenzo was the least of his concerns. He knew where he was lodging. What he wanted was to know where Cracker was staying. That would be useful. He was expecting the police and judiciary permission any day soon. With that in hand and a small backup team, getting to Cracker would be simple.
He waited a moment before getting into his car and watched all three drive off in their separate vehicles. Cracker was the last of the three. He followed them. Driving through Wells, he watched Vincenzo parking at his hotel and Cracker was a short distance behind the cardinal. They were both heading for Glastonbury.
Once in the town, Rizzo was surprised to see both cars come to a halt some distance from each other. He could see Cardinal Nicholas disembark from his vehicle and head into the George & Pilgrim hotel.
His surprise continued as after a few minutes, Cracker emerged from his car and entered the same hotel. They are obviously playing a ‘we are not connected game.’ Clever, but now I know. It makes life much easier for me.
Rizzo sat there for an hour and nobody left. This was definitely where they were both staying. He turned his car about and headed back to his own hotel. This was going better than he had had expected. Once apprehended, Cracker would be imprisoned until the arrest warrant process was completed.
48
His encrypted smartphone bleeped twice. He looked at it. Pope Adrian felt a small flutter of excitement touch his heart. Messages from his SOTA team in the UK had, of late, the enjoyable effect of lifting his morale and general well-being. Their discoveries were intriguing and provided a rare excitement in his round of religious duties and dictates. He checked the backup on his desktop and the exact configuration was there. He opened it up. The first thing he did was read it through. Professor Christie’s message was precise and direct. It made a quick summary of the events that had led them to their location in London’s outskirts – and the significance and symbolism behind names, locations and Arthurian legends concerning such things as the Holy Grail. The message spared nothing. It told of Miriam and Kelvin’s experiences, and how Miriam, as a scientist, had a few issues in the beginning, but now accepted them as something beyond science.
The Pope paused his reading and sat back in his chair with a deep breath. He didn’t doubt the experiences they were having. It was for him, not unexpected, but part of a gathering body of events and evidence that were moving into his orbit of beliefs and suspicions. He carried on reading. He was astonished when he came to the part about the skeleton and the gold inscription. It clearly states that a healing cup had prolonged his life. More tantalizing evidence… and finally, God be praised… three nails!
He looked at several photographs attached to the message. He enlarged them to maximum. There were shots of the skeleton and the skull, all taken from various angles. There were more photographs of the gold plaque and the nails, clear and unequivocal, including the Latin inscription, ‘Non diu vixit. El calicem me servavit.’ Miriam’s translation accompanied it. I lived long. Her cup saved me.
The nails from Christ’s flesh was said to have been extracted by Joseph of Arimathea. The tale of Jesus and the Magdalene living in the UK, and the healing cup, had grown stronger as the team discovered more. But this! Three nails! This cannot all be coincidence.
What Pope
Adrian saw – the gold plaque, the nails, and the dilapidated leather purse, gave rise to an inevitable question… Could the skeleton be the remains of Joseph of Arimathea?
The pope’s eyes filled with tears and wonderment.
Here was a serious case that required further investigation. He knew he would have support from various quarters, but again he knew there existed an even stronger faction of deeply conservative diehards within the Church, who wouldn’t have looked out of place as the scheming Pharisees in Jesus’s time.
Across his middle-aged face, a grimace appeared. For one unexpected moment, his vision blurred, and a sudden sharp pain erupted through his stomach and bowels. It went as quickly as it had appeared.
“Devono essere le sardine e le acciughe che ho mangiato a colazione.” His stomach gave another short burst. It definitely must be the sardines and anchovies I had for breakfast. He noticed he was breathing faster than usual.
He observed it for a moment and decided it made him uncomfortable. Pressing the buzzer beneath his desk, he summoned his chamberlain. He would ask him to call his doctor just to check and make certain nothing was amiss. As the leader of the world’s Catholics, he had sworn that he would entrust his health to his doctors, who he knew were guided by God. Whilst he took his health seriously, it seemed of little matter at that moment… the Holy Father was full of SOTA’s discoveries. They were sensational. All that was needed was the final prize – the blessed cup itself. The world would be turned upside down.
He made a silent prayer to God that it should be found for the good of all men and the approaching end of days.
His overwhelming euphoria was interrupted by thoughts of Cardinal Nicholas. He had received no messages from Inspector Rizzo, and his instructions were for the pope to carry on with him as usual. He knew he might find that difficult, but it would have to be done.